The man in Black played it well,

his reserved trilby poked down

to just above his shadow laden eyes

and his shirt unruffled, starched stiff on the collars

but underneath the skin ripples,

quivers with excited tones as each step of the saxophone

is mastered and controlled to pitch and the old man

sitting in the corner, the chair, slightly askew,

his hunched over frame

lets go finally of a regretful tear

of Time misplaced and his old black face

shows a memory in his eyes of a place where

his love said goodbye

and where she never said hello

again with tender lips,

she never returned as her destination

was always one way

and the sirens a couple of days later

where they found the body,

down by the mighty

Mississippi

of a woman drowned

in the art of self destruction

only ever haunted him for he was sure

her daddy had found out

of her affection for a young black man

whose grandfather

once picked cotton for free

and whose father raised a congregation

and spoke to them for free

about the evil of such men,

he was sure her daddy

had found out and that one gentle, mellow tone

kiss haunted him as the saxophonist in the bar

played the bitter regret to a fading piano

and the slowing drum beat and the crash

of a cymbal…

yes he cried

for in the end you weep

when you hear the saxophone play

as if every heart on the room

was breaking at the same time.

 

 

Ian D. Hall 2015